


That's What She Said

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, Bathroom Sex, Breakup, Casual Sex, Conflict, Conflict Resolution, Domestic, Drama, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Hidden Feelings, Hospital, Humor, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Light Smut, Melancholy, Miscommunication, No Strings Attached, One Shot Collection, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reunion, Reunion Sex, Romance, Sad, Secret Relationship, Sex Toys, Sexual Relationship, Smut, Tags will be added as more stories are uploaded, dying, office affair, the opposite of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-01-30 20:51:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21434530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: Dialogue prompts.
Relationships: Andrea Sachs/Nate, Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 205
Kudos: 534





	1. "You're Distracting Me."

**Author's Note:**

> I am back!
> 
> Hopefully I'll get over this writer's block soon enough because I have multiple fics I've simultaneously paused working on and, honestly, I miss writing.
> 
> I don't know how many chapters this will have, but each one is an individual drabble that stands on its own.

**Rating: **Teen and up audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly  
**Additional tags: **Established relationship, fluff, romance, light smut  
**Word count: **173

* * *

Her excuse is that Miranda never said "no."

She didn't say no when Andy started massaging her shoulders, nor when she bent down and started mouthing at the soft skin of her neck, and she didn't object when sure fingers unbuttoned her blouse.

"You're distracting me," Miranda murmurs, but tilts her head to the side to grant Andy's lips more access all the same, and despite her words, her body shows no rejection either: her chest inflates and sinks with the heaviness of her breathing, goosebumps rise on her skin, and her back arches ever so slightly when the blouse comes undone.

It doesn't deter her from maintaining her aloof game, but even though her eyes are still glued to the Book, her mind is evidently elsewhere.

"Do you want me to stop?" Andy husks against her ear.

She doesn't wait for an answer, and as she lowers herself to her knees and wraps her arms around quivering thighs, Miranda's pen skitters across the page, leaving a bright, red line in its wake.


	2. "Apparently, I'm Your Emergency Contact."

**Rating: **General audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs  
**Additional tags: **Hospital, melancholy, drama, breakup, reunion  
**Word count: **275

* * *

Everything is perfect: the service, the privacy, the window view, even the VIP meals.

Everything is perfect. Except for the fact that she's in a hospital bed. And that Andrea Sachs is standing in the doorway.

"Who called you?" she asks tiredly, barely mustering the energy to raise her voice any louder than a feeble murmur.

"Apparently, I'm your emergency contact," Andrea answers plainly and then steps further into the room. However, after depositing her handbag on a chair, she stays several feet away from the bed, crossing her arms over a silk blouse. There was no anger or real disapproval in her words, but Miranda knows her expression nonetheless.

"Heart attack," she provides the simple explanation--so simple for an event so life-altering.

Whereas Andrea's hardened face showed no more than the formal courtesy required to offer to a hospitalized acquaintance before, it now morphs into real concern and she takes the few steps toward the bed, but still remains out of reach.

Miranda's eyes lift heavenward in a gesture her shoulders can't bear to make at the moment, but it has the same desired effect of nonchalance. Or so she hopes. "I suppose I must have forgotten to remove you."

They both know, of course, that she's lying, but neither one will grant the matter enough importance to point it out. Andrea is already there, has chosen to come, and Miranda, deep down, is grateful for that.

It seems the silent admission, nevertheless, has somehow broken an invisible barrier because Andrea then reaches out her hand, Miranda grasps it, and for the first time in years, even if only temporarily, they're back together.


	3. "You're in Love with Her."

**Rating: **General audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/M, F/F  
**Relationship: **Andrea Sachs/Nate, Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Andrea Sachs, Nate, Miranda Priestly (mentioned)  
**Additional tags: **Drama, light angst  
**Word count: **174

* * *

In the question "what does Miranda have that Nate doesn't?" the answer is obvious, but it only aids in raising many other questions: Is Andy looking for the feminine parts and features that Nate can't provide? Why is that what she suddenly desires? And why does she not prefer all the great qualities that Nate possesses and Miranda is sorely lacking?

Nate is sweet and kind and Miranda isn't. Nate listens to and cares about her and Miranda doesn't. Nate loves her and Miranda never will.

And yet Andy can't stop thinking about her. Can't stop talking about her. Can't stop justifying unjustifiable actions to her boyfriend to prove, to herself more than anybody else, that she's right to want her.

"You're in love with her," Nate says one night after a breathless speech about Miranda's contribution to a male-domineered industry. It's not a question because they both know the answer, and yet it's a shocking revelation to the both of them.

And it's an answer to every single one of Andy's questions. "Yeah."


	4. "I'm Only Here to Establish an Alibi."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could be read as part of the _Perfect Assistant_ universe, but not necessarily.

**Rating: **Teen and up audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly, Irv Ravitz (mentioned)  
**Additional tags: **Humor, fluff, romance, office affair  
**Word count: **319

* * *

Andy waits until Irv leaves Miranda's office, and then waits another five minutes to allow her to cool down before walking in with a glass of water and the usual, helpful smile.

Miranda's fingers are already running across her laptop's keyboard, but her eyes are still clouded with irritable tension and as Andy bends to place the cool glass on a coaster, she mutters, "I see his body hasn't been found in a construction site yet."

"No, but I'm sure tonight's the night," Miranda replies without missing a beat, keeping her voice equally low. Her eyes never leave the glaring screen, which is when Andy remembers where they are, clears her throat, straightens up, and awaits further instructions.

There are none, but Miranda briefly lifts her gaze from the device, and through a barely-there glint in her eye, they share a secret joke.

\---

It's just after 11 P.M. that there's a knock at her door, and after stubbing her toe on the kitchen table's leg and cursing for a consecutive ten seconds, Andy opens the door with a huff and stills. And then grins.

"I thought you had a homicide planned for tonight," she says and can't keep the mischief out of her voice.

"I'm only here to establish an alibi," responds Miranda before stepping forward and planting a brusing kiss on her lips.

"I didn't think you would come," Andy says a while later while the sweat on her body cools off. From the other side of the bed, Miranda arches an eyebrow, and even though it's subtle, Andy doesn't miss the amusement in her eye.

"...here. Tonight," she clarifies with a very unconvincing glare. Rolling onto her side, she brushes a stubborn forelock out of Miranda's eye and murmurs, "I guess Irv is safe for one more night."

Miranda turns her head toward her and, if possible, her imperious brow climbs up even higher. "Says who?"


	5. "You Awake?"

**Rating: **Mature  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
Category: F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs  
**Additional tags: **Smut, plot what plot/porn without plot, established relationship  
**Word count: **535

* * *

Miranda hates stupid questions--questions to which the answer is obvious and that, by answering, make _her_ feel stupid in turn. She hates "Do you want coffee?" and "How many scarves do you need?" She hates "Should I get your coat?" and she hates "What should I tell this or that person on the phone?" More than anything, she hates--

"You awake?"

"I am now," she grumbles irritably and rolls onto her back, coming face to face with wide eyes that shine in the darkness and an expectant smile.

"Did I wake you?" Andrea whispers, which is another agitating question that makes Miranda's temper rise.

She cuts the inane conversation short, her voice still groggy from sleep. "Andrea, what could possibly be so important at..." She turns her head toward her nightstand and glares at the blaring, red digits on her alarm. "2:26 A.M.," she finishes outrageously.

"I'm horny," Andrea husks and promptly rolls on top of her, straddling the closest leg. And, well, Miranda can concede, that's a reason she can live with.

She doesn't respond, mostly because her mouth is otherwise preoccupied, but wraps her arms around Andrea's body nevertheless and strokes up and down a naked back (she only just notices), letting her take the lead for now.

Andrea does, and moves to nibble on an earlobe while finding Miranda's breast through the silken nightgown, rubbing and squeezing. Sighing, Miranda lowers a hand to grope a perfect, little butt cheek.

When Andrea's hand steals under the thin fabric for direct contact with the breast, her kisses and gentle bites move downward, to Miranda's neck. And when she rolls Miranda's hardening nipple between her fingers, Miranda surrenders and lets herself be touched.

"You want it?" Andrea mumbles against her skin and sucks her pulse point for good measure. Miranda moans.

"Stop asking stupid questions," she replies, her voice strangled, and gasps when her nipple is tugged.

"How bad?" is whispered into her ear, but she's the one to slip her hand between their bodies and Andrea is the one to buck when her fingers encounter moisture.

From that moment on, there are no words and no stupid questions; only heavy breathing, broken by occasional whines and whimpers as Miranda's fingers glide languidly in and out of Andrea.

By the time Andrea tenses and trembles against her, Miranda is a desperate mess, her skin burning for a renewed touch, the ache between her legs unbearable. It seems Andrea understands that because she gives up her own afterglow to slide down the length of Miranda's body and settle on her stomach, and then it's Miranda's turn to tremble, to thrash and squirm and moan, and she's definitely not upset now that Andrea woke her up.

Her brain goes blank right on cue when Andrea sucks her clit into her mouth one last time, and beyond the blood buzzing and roaring in her ears, she can hear a self-satisfied chuckle.

This is the part where Andrea will inevitably ask some other stupid question the answer to which is obvious, like "Was that good?" or "Would you have preferred I let you sleep?"

"Want more?" Andrea asks.

Or, on second thought, perhaps not all questions are stupid.


	6. "No One Is Coming."

**Rating: **Mature  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs  
**Additional tags: **Smut, plot what plot/porn without plot, established relationship  
**Word count: **155

* * *

"We can't do this here."

"Do you want me to stop?" Andy asks, even though they both know that Miranda doesn't--is too far gone to have either the will or ability to stop.

It's after office hours; the building is dark and mostly empty, the door to Miranda's office is locked, and they're being quiet, but even so, there's still the risk--the _thrill_\--of getting caught.

Andy slips her hand beneath Miranda's dress, hears her gasp, and grins.

"We... _oh_\--" Miranda moans, choking on her own voice, and anxiously glances at the frosted glass on her door, inches away from where they're standing against the wall. Her eyes are dark and wild.

"No one is coming," Andy whispers for what must be the fifth time, her breath hot on Miranda's face, and thrusts harder. Miranda bucks, whimpers, bites her lip, and even then she can hear the smirk in Andy's voice when she adds, "Except you."


	7. "Lie to Me Then."

**Rating: **General audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs  
**Additional tags: **Established relationship, romance, fluff, the opposite of fluff, humor  
**Word count: **1384

* * *

Miranda has no one to blame but Hugh Grant.

When Andrea suggested they watch _Four Weddings and a Funeral_ together, she thought nothing of it, and when she cried during _Love, Actually_, Miranda thought she was simply overreacting. But now it's become disturbingly apparent that Andrea Sachs, the woman with whom Miranda has chosen to spend her life, is a fan of romantic comedies.

Which is all fine and well but for the fact that Miranda can't stand them. She hates recycled scripts of the same type of couple kissing in the rain, and she detests the clichéd cheesiness that accompanies every other line, and most of all she can't understand the unrealistic portrayals of couples openly and unapologetically confessing their deepest and rawest feelings to each other with spectacular ease.

"Is that really the kind of thing you're looking for in a movie?" Miranda asks carefully, trying to keep her voice neutral lest Andrea think she's judging--which she is--while Andrea hums along to the tune of _She_ at the end of _Notting Hill_.

"What thing?" Andrea murmurs with a watery smile.

"I don't know." Miranda waves vaguely in the direction of the television screen. "These... grand gestures. Guy tells girl he's madly in love with her. Happily ever after."

Andrea turns to her, eyes wide with sincerety. "Don't you think it's incredibly romantic? Ugh," she sighs dreamily and turns back to the screen, where credits are rolling onto the black background, with a hand pressed against her chest.

Miranda weighs her next words heavily in her head before clearing her throat and looking away. "Do you... ever wish that you had that kind of relationship?"

It's a fair inquiry, she concludes, considering Andrea's life with her is far from the glamorous happy endings the characters in her favorite movies get. Miranda doesn't make declerations, and she isn't open and sappy and quirky like the people depicted in those films, and most of the time she leaves the people closest to her guessing as to her true feelings.

She doesn't bring home flowers and chocolates, she refuses forms of intimacy like nicknames and overly sentimental compliments, and she can't remember the last time she told Andrea she loves her. Up until recently, she assumed that Andrea didn't need her to, that Andrea was content with the nature of their relationship, but now thanks to one of Hollywood's highest grossing genres, she's not so sure anymore.

Andrea turns to her again, her serotonin-induced pleasure mixed with confusion. "What do you mean?"

Wishing she could get up and leave, regretting even broaching the subject, Miranda purses her lips and begrudgingly admits, "I know I'm not the most... demonstrative person in the world."

Andrea's eyes widening again, this time in understanding, she quickly scoots closer on the loveseat and takes hold of Miranda's arm. "Oh, no, that's not what I was--" she begins urgently, but falters and gives Miranda a placating smile. "I don't expect any big, romantic gestures from you."

Miranda gives her an outraged glare and she quickly remedies, "I know you're not the kind of person who gives lengthy speeches about how much you love me or chases me through an airport to win my love. And that's okay," she reassures with a bigger smile, "because I'm not going anywhere. I know you love me, and that's all that matters."

Her words seem to be aimed at pacifying Miranda, and for a minute they do and she makes the decision to put the entire matter out of her mind.

But alas, her promise to herself is without base because as the day progresses, she can't seem to stop thinking about it. She thinks about it in the shower, and during dinner, and long after Andrea has fallen asleep. She thinks about how Andrea may be saying one thing--and likely believing herself--but her subconcious, the part of her that, for absurd reasons beyond Miranda, is obsessively attracted to the cheapest, trashiest form of cinema, longs for the confirmation of Miranda's true feelings, to the romantic gestures that the rest of the girls in the movies are lucky to receive. Miranda, like their love interests, has won the girl; after a long, excruciating battle with herself and the rest of the world, she finally got to seize and keep her and experience her own "happily ever after." How long will it take Andrea to realize that a relationship with Miranda is not as fulfilling as she expected it to be and that she can do better?

Despite herself, Miranda continues to think about it the next day during her morning routine, the car ride to work, and behind her office desk, where her mind should be occupied with matters of far more importance than the unfortunate fact that her life is not a romantic comedy.

She's in a foul mood by the time she arrives home at the end of the day and finds Andrea on the couch in the den, blithely working on her laptop.

When her handbag lands on the coffee table with a loud thud, Andrea looks up in bewilderment. Miranda breathes in through her nose, opens her mouth, closes it again, and Andrea's eyebrows furrow.

"I'm not good at this kind of thing," she blurts bitterly and somehow it comes out sounding accusatory.

Andrea slowly closes her laptop and places it on the coffee table, beside the dumped bag. "What... kind of thing?"

"This..." Miranda irritably waves her hand in the air as though shooing a fly. "This silly, clichéd, lovey-dovey thing. I don't talk about my feelings and I don't see the need to constantly _show_ my love," she says, disgustedly remembering some cringe-worthy scenes from Andrea's precious movie collection.

"Whoever needs to know knows," she finishes with a final tone that brooks no argument, nodding once to convince herself.

"O...kay?" Andrea stammers, her forehead crinkled in confusion. Then she shakes her head. "I'm sorry, what?"

Resigned, Miranda sighs and joins her on the couch, her shoulders sagging in defeat. "Andrea, I'm never going to be like those characters in your movies. I do... _feel_ all those things, but I'm not... I'm not comfortable making a big deal of it, alright?"

When she turns to look at Andrea, she's no longer perplexed, but... amused. Andrea finds Miranda's distress amusing. "Miranda," she chuckles, "I already told you, I don't need you to. I love you the way you are, I love what we have, so why are you so worked up about all this?"

"Because, Andrea," Miranda explains slowly, as if speaking to a stupid child, "you say that now, but you'll see: soon enough, it'll get very old. You'll get tired of trying to guess how I feel about you and when I'm unable to provide what you're looking for, the real problems will start."

"Miranda..." Andrea starts, disconcerted.

"I'm not a romantic person, Andrea," Miranda interrupts. "I know the truth about my feelings. You know the truth. That should be enough."

A pregnant silence ensues and she finally dares to dart a glance in Andrea's direction. Her partner looks deep in thought, a frown etched into her features. In a moment, though, as if it's never been, it's gone and a blinding smile breaks onto her face, her eyes gleaming with mirth Miranda can't place.

"Lie to me then," Andrea says, her voice carrying her words with the joy of a new idea.

It's Miranda's turn to frown, to be pulled out of her depth. "What?"

"Lie to me then," Andrea repeats with a little more conviction, as if that clears up everything.

And at last, it does, because Miranda's own frown disappears as realization dawns, her features smoothing out, her muscles relaxing. Her lover _has_ always had a brilliant mind.

She takes Andrea's hand, clears her throat, looks into her eyes, and proclaims with everything she has, "Andrea, you're the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

And, perhaps the only person in the world to have that kind of reaction to that kind of statement, Andrea's smile grows impossibly wider, the light dancing beautifully in her laughing eyes. Grabbing the back of Miranda's neck with her free hand, she pulls her in for a kiss that beats every kiss in every romantic comedy Miranda's ever seen. In her head, the tune of _She_ starts playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess that I got this idea after being persuaded to watch not one, but _two_ Hugh Grant romcoms by my father, the romcom enthusiast. Between Andy and Miranda in this fic, I'm Miranda.


	8. "I Still Remember the Way You Taste."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a drabble collection, but this one got a little long so now it's just a regular one-shot collection.

**Rating: **Explicit  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly  
**Additional tags: **Smut, angst, melancholy, breakup, reunion, reunion sex, bathroom sex, hurt no comfort  
**Word count: **2803

* * *

The first time they meet after the breakup is at a public restroom, and even though the event taking place in the banquet hall outside permitted plus-ones, they're both alone.

Andy's hair is slightly shorter and her bangs are gone, and Miranda's black _Valentino_ gown is mesmerizing in its curve-hugging beauty. They stare at each other and say nothing.

"Hi," is the only thing Andy can think of at last and it's as inane as it sounds. The first word spoken between them in long, estranged months; such a small one attempting to encapsulate something so big and significant.

Miranda licks her lips and replies with the same vague courtesy she extends to anyone who doesn't work for her, "Hello." Then again, Miranda's never been a woman of many words either.

Wringing her hands, Andy gathers her courage and steps a little closer. "How... how have you been?"

She can see that Miranda is slightly taken aback by the question, not expecting her well-being to interest someone who's no longer obliged to be interested, but her reaction doesn't show in her voice when she gives a short "Fine." Then, almost as an afterthought, "You?" If Andy listens closely, her voice sounds a little strangled.

She nods. "I'm good." She shrugs almost immediately, a half-hearted smile tugging on the corner of her lips. "Okay," she remedies in concesion.

Miranda nods, too. "Good." She hates small talk, and her discomfort with the situation shows in the pinching of her lips, the muscle spasming in her cheek. Yet she doesn't make a move to exit the room or, alternatively, proceed toward a stall as she must have intended to do upon entering. She stays still, watching Andy, who watches her back.

"Are you here with someone?" Andy asks softly, softer than she intended her voice to come out, almost trepidatious of Miranda's impending answer.

It comes in the form of a mere headshake, a perfectly styled forelock falling over Miranda's eye. She doesn't return the question, though--perhaps already knowing the answer or just not daring to.

"Well..." Andy says feebly and clears her throat, then wrings her hands again, "it's good to see you."

It's a complete lie. She could have gone the rest of her life without seeing Miranda again, without feeling the piercing pang in her chest she's experiencing now. Miranda's eyes are bright and penetrating, taking her in like no time has passed, and if she lets herself, she can imagine it hasn't, can allow herself to drift into a fantasy world where Miranda and her are still together, are still happy, where love is enough to keep them together.

When Miranda gives another, terse nod in her version of "You, too," it snaps her out of her haze in time to see her turn on her heel and head toward the door.

"I miss you," she hears herself blurt, surprising even herself. But the moment the words are out of her mouth, her heart starts pounding inside her ribcage because they can't be taken back.

Miranda stills, stalls, a hand still poised to reach for the doorknob. Through the cleavage at her back, Andy can see the muscles growing rigid, as if bracing for impact, and of their own accord, Andy's legs start moving.

"Do you miss me, too?" she questions. Maybe later she'll regret this outburst of unfiltered words, but for now there's nothing in the world she yearns for more than Miranda's answer. To hear her say that yes, she misses her, too.

"Andrea..." Her name comes out on an expelled breath before Miranda turns back to face her, the sorrow in her eyes unmasked. It's a rare affirmation of her true feelings, and perhaps that's what prompts Andy to move even closer.

"Do you?" she asks imploringly.

"You know the answer to that," Miranda replies, her voice so low that Andy might have missed it if she wasn't standing so close.

She stops then, her brow furrowed. "I don't." Not really. She never could really tell what Miranda showed her openly and what she only wanted her to see. Closed off, unreadable--that's what Andy called her during one of many heated arguments. She didn't really mean the words, not in the lashing, striking way they were thrown at Miranda, but they're true nonetheless and even now, after all this time, she can't be entirely, one-hundred percent sure what she meant to Miranda.

She needs to know that she's not alone in this: the heartache that follows her around every day, the emptiness around which she has to assemble a new life without Miranda. She needs to know that she, too, had an impact on Miranda's life, that she hasn't been forgotten.

"I miss the way you used to look at me," she whispers, now mere inches away from invading Miranda's personal space, and feels rather than hears Miranda's breath catch.

"Andrea," Miranda whispers again and gulps.

"I can still remember the way you touched me." She's so close now that she can feel the warm puffs of Miranda's breath on her face, can tell that it's coming out faster. "When we were alone."

She has no idea what she's doing. She must have lost her mind--Miranda has that effect on people. But she's not thinking. She can't think, not with Miranda this close, not after months of deprivation and longing. All she knows is that the greatest love of her life is standing in front of her, so beautiful it hurts, and she smells good and she has that look on her face that tells Andy she wants it, too, and right in that moment, Andy has never wanted anything more badly.

"I still remember the way you taste," she says, her voice the threadiest whisper, and Miranda's pulse jumps at her neck, begging her to, well, taste it.

"Here." She presses the lightest, gentlest kiss to that spot at the base of her neck, where she can feel the accelerated beating under her lips, and yet Miranda doesn't object, doesn't tell her to stop or push her away. She grants her a silent approval to go on and so Andy lifts her head from that warm skin that burns her lips and plants them on a sharp cheekbone, a longer, open-mouthed kiss. "Here."

Miranda's breathing stops and shudders out, her cheek reddening under the touch. The rest of her body, however, is stiff as a statue, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides. Andy pulls back, only a little, and searches her hooded eyes for any sign she should stop. She finds none.

"Here," she continues, making sure to blow her own gentle breath against Miranda's face as she moves toward the side of her mouth. She parts her lips, tilts her head--

She only registers that Miranda's fingers are in her hair, tangled almost painfully, no doubt mussing it, when they're already kissing, and then she stops thinking altogether, instead letting the sensation of warm, soft lips caressing hers take over.

It's not particularly tender, and strangely, it's not familiar either, not in the way that their kisses used to be, anyway; it's hungry and desperate and it seems Miranda is trying to consume her whole with her urgency, taking everything and as much as she can get lest she never get another chance.

They both know she won't. They know that this moment could end any second, and it appears to be a mutually, albeit unspoken, decision to take full advantage. To not let go.

Andy lets go first, but only to grant her lungs a big gulp of air before she goes in again, and this time she tries to control the kiss, tries to take her time and savor the feeling, the taste. Miranda tastes of champagne, and something else, sweeter and intoxicating, that is uniquely Miranda. Her tongue is as sharp and demanding as it always is, exploring Andy's mouth ruthlessly until all Andy can think about is the unbearable need that aches deep inside her, begging to be noticed and catered to.

"Should we be doing this?" she pants against Miranda's skin even as she moves on to mouth at her earlobe, her neck.

"No," Miranda replies hoarsely and grabs the back of her neck, pulling her in for another kiss, and this one almost makes Andy's toes curl.

They're still standing by the door, making out like a couple of lovesick teenagers, hands roaming and groping, makeup smearing. Andy, in a brief moment of clarity, deftly turns the lock behind Miranda's back and screw anyone else who has to powder their nose; for the next while, Miranda is hers again.

She backs them away from the entrance, pulling Miranda blindly along until a pair of scorching lips fixes itself on her neck and her mind goes momentarily blank. They stop somewhere in the middle of the room for Miranda to drag and wrinkle Andy's silk gown on the path up her legs while Andy clings on for dear life, never wanting to let go.

The dress falls back down when Miranda gets distracted by fingers on her side zipper, and when Andy lowers it in a haste to get at more skin, the sound is loud and indecent in the empty space.

"God, I missed this," she breathes out while pinning Miranda against the marble counter.

"Stop talking," Miranda hisses, fingernails digging into Andy's sides, though it doesn't sound quite so mean when it comes out so breathless. To punish her, nevertheless, Andy sinks her teeth into the space where her shoulder meets her neck in a bite that makes her growl.

She half-expects Miranda to reprimand her for leaving such an obvious mark where it can't be hidden when they step out of that restroom, maybe even put a stop to this insanity, but astonishingly, she seats herself on the counter wordlessly, pulling Andy closer. Perhaps she missed this just as much.

"Yes," Andy pants, her clit throbbing against its silken confines, and abandons the task of removing Miranda's gown to the simpler action of lifting it up her thighs and settling between them.

They both moan when their mouths meet again, and one of Miranda's legs curls around Andy's body, the shoe falling off in the process. Andy can feel her hard nipples through the material of her dress, and when she grabs one breast and circles the stiff peak with her thumb, a shiver courses through Miranda's entire body.

Somewhere over Miranda's gasping and panting and the blood roaring in her own ears, Andy registers the jazz music from the event outside the room and is reminded, to her chagrin, that they're pressed for time. As much as she would like to go slow and cherish every moment, knowing this will have to be the last time, she can't, and Miranda seems to be on the same page because she lifts her own dress, grabs Andy's wrist, positions her hand right on her lace-covered heat, and throws her head back with a sigh that borders on a groan.

She's so wet that her panties are damp and sticky--Andy's affirmation that she does want it, too--and it's the work of a second to hook her fingers into the material and move it aside.

She has to place her free hand over Miranda's lips when two fingers enter her lest someone hear her mewling sound beyond the closed door. Miranda's eyes close in ecstasy as Andy pumps in and out and her lips move helplessly against her palm, tickling the skin.

When she's confident that Miranda's regained at least some semblance of control to keep quiet, Andy removes the hand, using it, instead, to grab Miranda's hip and drag her closer across the counter. Against her sides, she feels Miranda's thighs tremble and, almost involuntarily, increases the pounding between her legs.

"Oh!" Miranda cries out at the change, a broken, sobbing moan, and her body falls backward until her upper back is propped up against the mirror, where Andy can see the concentration on her face as she fucks her.

She can't reach her mouth now, not to silence nor to stifle the sounds with her own lips, and even though Miranda is biting her lower lip, noises are still erupting from her throat with every thrust of Andy's fingers. One hand gains a purchase on a soap dispenser, grasping it in a death grip as her body rocks with the movement, while the other searches blindly for something to hold onto. It slides across the counter, fingers clenching and unclenching, before unceremoniously slipping into the sink, where the automatic faucet lets out a burst of water.

Abruptly stopping her pounding, Andy sets a slow pace instead, her thrusting deep and languid, and when she adds her thumb to circle around Miranda's clit, Miranda's wet hand slaps against the mirror at her side, her moans long and shuddering.

Andy's arm hooks, then, around her waist, pulling her upright so she can get at her still covered breasts with her mouth, and Miranda's hands immediately grab the sides of her face, guiding her toward her lips instead. This kiss is sloppy and lazy, repeatedly interrupted by Andy's pushing and Miranda's resulting sounds until it's just parted lips lingering against each other, breathing simultaneously.

Miranda's breathing gradually increases in pace and volume, her lips growing dry, and when Andy finally focuses her attention on her clit, rubbing just to the side of it, just the way Miranda likes, her hair and shoulder are gripped tightly as Miranda's entire body begins to quake. At the last minute, Andy has the sense to claim her lips once more, and as Miranda's orgasm washes over her, no one outside hears a thing.

She helps her ride it out, stroking her fingers gently through her folds, plucking aftershocks from her spent body until Miranda grabs her arm again, this time to push it away.

Andy steps away, too, observing with painful longing what she's done to Miranda: the flushed cheeks, the messy hair, the rapid rising and sinking of her chest. Miranda's legs are shakey when she slides off the counter, reminding Andy of postcoital jokes about the inability to walk, but this will not be another sweaty, naked cuddling in bed that leaves no question as to whether there'll be more.

Miranda forgoes her afterglow and--no. Fucking. Way--astoundingly gracefully, lowers herself to her knees right there on the undoubtedly filthy bathroom floor. She refuses to meet Andy's eyes, but even so, the hem of Andy's gown gets bunched up in two fists and pulled up, and it's then that she's reminded of her own unattended to ache.

Her breathing becomes shallow when her panties are shoved to the side like she did with Miranda's own earlier, and when a hot, wet mouth practically envelopes her, hungrily drawing her in, she nearly loses her balance. For lack of a better place to put them, she steadies her hands on Miranda's head.

Miranda's tongue is as demanding and nimble as it was in Andy's mouth, circling her pulsing clit so hard and fast Andy's peripheral vision begins to grey. The occasional dip into her makes her yelp, and by the time Miranda digs her fingers into her ass cheeks and eats her in earnest, she thinks she might die right there in that hotel's restroom.

She doesn't die, but when her orgasm has begun to subside, a small part of her wishes she had. Because now it's over. Now they're both sated, have gotten it out of their systems, for the time being. And now it's time to say goodbye. For good.

Except Andy isn't sated. She isn't satisfied, not in the least, and if anything, the emptiness inside her has only grown.

"So what now?" she asks quietly, her voice laced with trepidation, as she watches Miranda in the mirror. She has just finished washing her lips and, pulling a lipstick from her purse, meets Andy's eyes in the reflection. Her expression is wordless, but poignant.

Andy knows what it means. She understands that nothing will happen now; they'll make themselves presentable (but for Andy's wrinkled dress and Miranda's bruised shoulder) and rejoin the gathering outside, and when it's finished, they'll each go their separate ways.

They won't get back together, because none of their peoblems have been resolved and they can't be--they've tried and failed on countless occasions. And when they inevitably meet at some other event in the future, what happened today will not be repeated because when they return to their separate homes shortly, they'll both conclude that it did more harm than good, made their longing far greater.

For now, Andy unlocks the bathroom door and glances one last time over her shoulder, trying to commit every detail to memory.


	9. "I Want to Go Home."

**Rating: **General audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs  
**Additional tags: **Established relationship, hurt/comfort, drama, light angst, family  
**Word count: **599

* * *

The same night Andy brings Miranda into her parents' home for the first official, face-to-face meeting between the two pairs, Miranda finds her in the small kitchen downstairs, the very room where, mere hours beforehand, all hell broke loose and dinner culminated with Kate Sachs exclaiming that "this is just unacceptable" and Richard Sachs storming out without a word.

Andy sits at the head of the table and stares off into space with a blank, empty look in her bloodshot eyes--partly due to the late hour and lack of sleep and thanks, in part, to the crying she's been hiding in the privacy of that secluded space.

The old, oaken clock above the fridge ticks loudly in its otherwise silent surroundings, the heavy arms in its center inching ever closer to the 1:15 spots. Accompanied by that rhythmic, steady sound, Miranda crosses the threshold into the room and stops by Andy's side, gazing upon her from the height provided to her by their different positions.

She woke up from a very light sleep--which couldn't quite be classified as sleep so much as slipping in and out of consciousness, drifting in that strange plane of existence, of possibility and impossibility, for hours on end--and found the other side of the guest room bed devoid of Andy's presence and warmth.

In a robe, untamed hair, and clean face, she concludes her short search in a house that hasn't many hiding options to begin with. "Andrea." Her voice is tired, adhering to the time of night and their current circumstances, but also tender as to not startle Andy, who hasn't stirred from her tranced staring since Miranda made her presence known.

Above them, the clock continues to tick, unfazed by their trouble; a car passes outside on the street, and Andy remains unresponsive.

When she's drawn into Miranda's embrace, at last a sigh is emitted, so long and deep that they both understand it's been held inside all evening. Andy presses her head against Miranda's robed midsection, the softness of the cashmere warring against the roughness of the day, and the tension stored up and coiling their muscles slowly ebbs away with her reticent tears.

There's a hand on the side of her head, hesitant but solid, holding her against Miranda and gently tickling her temple in a gesture that is meant to do no more than comfort when Miranda's lips fail to come up with the words she needs to hear. She can't tell her that everything will be alright because it's not a promise that's up to her to keep, and this particular moment, when Andy is visibly shaken and grieving the loss of a relationship Miranda never had, will never comprehend, in favor of another, is not the time for her own venting.

"Let's go to bed," she says instead because, at 1:15 A.M., that's the only thing they can do.

"I want to go home," Andy mumbles in response, the words muffled against Miranda's body. She doesn't consider the fact that this house is the one she grew up and spent the majority of her life in or the fact that, in New York or, before that, Illinois, "going home" indicated a return to a place she now yearns to escape; a house, not a home. Home, she realizes, is not necessarily a physical building of rooms and furniture, but a state, something impalpable that one can't see or touch but rather feel.

She rises from the kitchen chair and lets Miranda wrap an arm around her waist and lead her upstairs, because after all, she is home.


	10. "I Am Dying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one is, um, different.
> 
> **WARNING:** Major character dying (i.e. in the process of dying), but NO actual depiction of death.

**Rating: **General audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs, Cassidy Priestly, Caroline Priestly  
**Additional tags: **Dying, drama, sad, established relationship  
**Word count: **2026

* * *

The room is blurry when she wakes up, gradually fluttering her eyes open from a fragmented slumber, the kind where it's unclear whether you're asleep or conscious, portions of dreams and half-hallucinations blending into a dark background of distant reality. Things slowly begin to reach into her awareness when her foggy, disoriented mind drifts to the surface: furniture and pictures on the darkened wall, the agitating sound of a machine, the smell of decay. She's uncomfortable, but she can't bring herself to move, to change into a different position or rearrange her surroundings or, alternatively, herself--isn't sure she'd be able to if she tried. Her clothes, once impeccable and breathtaking, are now plain and uninspiring, two pieces of silk slumped limply over an emaciated body, and the pillow beneath her holds stray strands from a thinning head of hairs, the picture it presents resembling the falling of leaves in autumn. The autumn of her life is coming to an end, one last beautiful season before the page turns, before the colors change, before winter takes over.

"Did she eat?" a voice floats from far away into her ears, hushed and loud against the silence all at once, muffled by the bedroom door. There's a slight edge to it, an almost imperceptible tremor that wants to break free but is pushed to the back by a brave exterior. She takes a deep breath, thinks she can't get enough air, nearly panics, and then remembers the tube steadily pumping oxygen into her nostrils and lungs, performing the most basic task she's been rendered incapable of doing alone.

"Just some toast and yogurt for breakfast," a twin voice replies, more somber, maintaining a level of composure, but not trying as hard to hide the pain.

"Think she can handle dinner?" A pause. "It's almost 8 o'clock."

"I'll ask Olivia to bring her something," says the second voice--she's ashamed to admit she's having a harder time telling them apart--the statement followed by footsteps, moving away from the door, the sound decreasing until there's nothing but the machine and her own artificial breathing.

"I'll go see if she's awake," the remaining voice murmurs to an unidentified person, or perhaps to no one.

"No." A new voice. "I'll go."

The sliver of light that seeps into the room is dim and gradual, not enough to see much beyond what the eyes have adjusted to, nor long in its presence to bring with it everything she's missing from the outside world, but it's blinding nonetheless, breaking the darkness and intruding on her rest with the slow creaking of the door. When it's closed again, it's another few moments for the darkness to dissipate, but before they're through, the mattress dips and she doesn't need to see; she knows.

She hums to show her acknowledgement and signify her wakefulness, her voice barely coming through, barely more than a weak weight on her vocal chords, and she's rewarded with a hand on her shoulder, stroking up and down with the lightest, gentlest, almost tentative touch.

"Are you awake?" Andrea asks as delicately as ever, and even though Miranda can't bear to turn her head, she hears the wobbly smile in her tone, knows Andrea is putting on a show of strength and poise for her benefit. They both also know that the question is completely moot, and in a different time and a different place, Miranda would have found it irritating; as it is, she has half the mind to consider its legitimacy, accept the fact that she spends the majority of her days not knowing the answer, unsure of whether she's living in the real world or simply floating between delirious dreams. Sometimes she wishes she wasn't lucid, like a cliché of her circumstances, wishes the brain that once served her so well would stop working just so she wouldn't have to feel what's happening to her, wouldn't have to see the sorrow and fear in her loved ones' eyes.

"Are you up for eating something?" The best she can do is a feeble shake of her head, and she hopes it's enough to get the message through.

"Okay." The word comes out on an exhale, a sigh that holds in it much more than Andrea's acceptance to leave her stomach empty. The mattress shifts again, the weight on it changing, and just before it's too late, Miranda realizes what's happening. In a moment of quiet desparation, she grasps Andrea's wrist with her remaining strength, wordlessly compelling her to stay.

It's all the prompting Andrea needs, and as she stretches her body along the side of Miranda's, placing her cheek on the same pillow, a wave of grateful relief washes over Miranda's tired body, the hint of a smile thanking her beloved.

The hand that was used as an anchor is not released back into the listless position of its counterpart on the bed, instead taken inside Andrea's and squeezed, lightly but solidly--she doesn't want to hurt Miranda, thinks she's fragile, but she's there and she's telling her she's not going anywhere. Her palm is warm whereas Miranda's heart can't seem to muster the energy to stream blood into every single vein these days, soft fingers wrapping around her hand and caressing the skin with soothing motions. She can feel Andrea's breath against her face, so close that it would only take the smallest movement for them to become one, and even that is something Miranda is powerless to do. So she listens to the breathing in the room instead, Andrea's quiet exhales mingling with her mechanically-generated ones, and hopes it lulls her back to sleep before she's left alone again when a new sound penetrates her consciousness.

"Stop that," the mutters at once, putting everything she can into conveying the strict authority she once possessed, and even that isn't enough. It also does nothing to quiet Andrea's ragged sniffling.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles brokenly, but makes no effort to calm down, no movement to wipe the tears away. They lie motionless in their bed, Andrea crying against Miranda's side, Miranda listening and helpless to do a thing.

This is the worst part: watching the people closest to her slowly lose her and knowing there's nothing she can do about it. She's here--real and thinking and breathing (if with some assistance)--but she might as well already be gone. She wonders if when the time comes, when her final day and hour arrive, it will be a relief not only to herself but to those who've had to witness her deterioration, if life will become just a little more colorful, the weight on their shoulders just slightly lighter.

"I miss you," Andrea abruptly chokes out and, despite their very obvious circumstances, it nearly comes as a shock to Miranda because up until now, Andrea has never uttered a statement of its likeness, never fully made peace with and admitted to the fact that she is, in fact, losing Miranda. She's been a bright star in her life to the point of near infuriation, her optimism attempting to overshadow everything else. She's the one who offers smiles and words of comfort and encouragement and motivation, goes above and beyond to be even more helpful than the live-in nurse, and never once admits defeat.

Miranda wishes she could spare some words of comfort and encouragement now, say things like "I'm still here," "Everything will be alright." But none sound quite convincing enough in her head. She caresses Andrea's hand instead, squeezes back.

She fears she's taking Andrea's life with her, too. She's younger, a lot younger; now, more than ever, the difference is painfully palpable when the little, shadowy threat that followed their relationship throughout all those years, just off in the background, just about easy enough to ignore, has finally materialized into the big monster that it really is: the poignancy of aging side by side but not together. It's become impossible to ignore when every breath she takes could be her last and Andrea, who could have had a long, full life with a partner her age, many more years of love and joy and memories, has to take care of an old woman. When it's over, what will she be left with?

When age had begun to take its toll and the beginning of the end could be spotted on the horizon, Miranda jokingly suggested compiling a list of approved, future significant others to replace her and keep Andrea's bed warm in her absence--from acquaintances to models to A-list movie stars--but discarded the idea when it brought tears to Andrea's eyes. Now she wishes she'd insisted harder, treated the matter as more than a joke, just so she'd have the certain knowledge that Andrea will be okay without her, that her life won't be over because Miranda's is.

She's now the same age Miranda was when they first met, basically in the middle of her life, so much time ahead to live. And Miranda... well, even now she would rather die than confess her real age. And soon, her wish would come true. Very soon. Too soon.

"Andrea, I am dying," she whispers, each syllable a mountain she struggles to release from her mouth, but she'll be damned if she leaves Andrea with the feeling of something unfinished. "There's nothing anyone can do about it."

She feels the headshake against the pillow, can just picture Andrea's eyes squeezing defiantly in denial. "Stop," it's Andrea's turn to admonish, her voice, ironically, an even weaker whisper. "Don't say that. There's still time."

"Andre--"

"There's still time," she repeats firmly, raising herself onto an elbow. Now Miranda can see the tears streaking her face and the anguish in the eyes that peer down at her. "I-- I'm not ready yet."

With whatever energy she has left, Miranda brings their joined hands up, places Andrea's palm in the center of her chest, and feels the gust of her exhale as Andrea presses harder, desperate to feel the faint beating beneath the skin. Her head bows, the sniffling returns, and she moves closer, plastering herself to Miranda's body with a force that contrasts her earlier tenderness. Miranda is aching all over with an untraceable pain, her body pleading with her to let it go, crying out, "I've done my job. I'm tired." And even so, Andrea's touch is welcome, the hand on her face, the wet kisses to her temple, forehead, cheek while Andrea murmurs like a mantra, "Not yet. Not yet. Please. Not yet. I don't know how to live a life without you in it."

"Shhh..." she soothes, but doesn't make her stop, doesn't want her to stop. There's no cure for old age, not in her lifetime, and even if there was, Miranda wouldn't want to live forever. She wants to see her time through with a smile, a tip of the hat, and a murmured "Thank you" to the world for having her. She's weary, she's ready, and the doctors have made it very clear that the only thing they can do is make her comfortable before she bids the world farewell. She's made her peace with it; now she can only hope she'll get to witness Andrea do the same while she still can, so it makes it just slightly less difficult to say goodbye.

"You're the greatest love of my life," Andrea cries, her strangled voice barely carrying the sound. "I'm sorry if I didn't tell you that enough."

Miranda smiles then, and it's not so difficult when Andrea is caressing and kissing her. "You didn't have to."

She wishes she could close her eyes and go back to sleep. Most days, the promise of eternal slumber seems like a godsend; moments like this make the mere notion unbearable, make her want to fight it with everything she has left in her expiring body. There's so much to say still, and so little time. Goodbyes have that way about them. At the end of the day, there's only so much one can do before succumbing to the natural order of the world. But so long as Andrea's touch remains on her skin, she'll stay awake.


	11. "Are You Drunk?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's something a little happier after the last few.

**Rating: **General audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs  
**Additional tags: **Fluff, romance, established relationship  
**Word count: **773

* * *

A slammed door, a table bumping against the wall, a clatter of coat hangers: this can only mean one thing.

"Honey, I'm home!"

Sighing, Miranda shakes her head and tries to reconcentrate on the Book even as the loud exclamation is followed by inconsistent footsteps, legs that have no correlation with a brain trying to balance on high heels.

"Hey, sexy." Andrea smiles cheekily upon reaching the den and Miranda's head snaps up. "You come here often?"

"Are you drunk?" she accuses, focusing judgemental eyes on her partner's inebriated face over the rim of her glasses.

"Maybe..." Andrea drawls, her smile widening. "But if I'm not, then I think there's something wrong with the floor." For emphasis, she steadies both hands on a nearby table and stomps her foot several times as if to test the hardwood's resilience.

Miranda can't really blame her. Today was her and hundreds of others' official last day at _The New York Mirror_ before the paper closes its doors permanently, and if ever there was a reason to drink oneself into oblivion, this is a justified cause. Andrea, of course, already has a shining, new job lined up, one which she infuriatingly refused to allow Miranda to help her land, even going as far as declining a letter of recommendation, but Miranda supposes getting drunk in a dingy bar, surrounded by equally disgruntled co-workers, could be somewhat... cathartic. For some people. Still, she can't quite maintain her eye roll before returning to her awaiting pages.

"So... I've been drinking," Andrea says--slurs, rather--coming closer; Miranda can already smell the liquor on her breath.

"You don't say," she quips dryly and strikes a big, red X across a model's picture.

There's a brief moment of silence before Andrea shakes her head and tries again. "I mean, thinking," she corrects herself with a snicker, settling on the arm of Miranda's chair. It takes two attempts as the first one leads her to lose her balance and nearly slide onto the carpet beneath her unsteady feet. Her face is uncomfortably close to Miranda's when she continues, "You know what we should do?"

"Get you a cup of coffee?" Miranda replies, flipping a page. "And some mints."

Another snicker, a stronger whiff of what she can unfortunately recognize as beer (and not even a good brand), and then Andrea, who's become quite predictable to Miranda throughout the course of their relationship, says something truly unpredictable. Clumsily whispered into Miranda's ears are the words "We should get married."

Before they're fully registered, Andrea has already pulled back, trying to discern her reaction through unfocused eyes and a delighted grin. By the time the Book has snapped shut with a loud thud, Miranda's own eyes are huge. "Excuse me?" The only response she receives is a bigger, brighter smile. She doubts Andrea has ever been this drunk, is certain she's never witnessed her experience this level of intoxication, and she's already dreading the following morning. "You should go to bed," she decrees.

"I know, I know." Andrea holds her hands before her, perhaps trying to look and sound as if she has all the answers to the universe's questions, but in reality, she seems to be having difficulties keeping her eyes open and her posture erect. "Now that I'm unemployed, I'm not exactly the hottest commodity, but we can make do with one income, right?"

Despite her best efforts, Miranda can't hold in a smirk; Andrea's reporter salary has hardly been the money keeping them afloat and this is quite possibly the best show she's had a front row seat to in a while.

"Also," Andrea continues to ramble while Miranda gets up, "if the dresses is what you're worried about, we can totally skip white since, y'know, we're not fooling anyone--" her spectacular marriage pitch is interrupted by a less than dignified hiccup that seems to throw her entire body off balance. With a hand on the back of the vacated chair, she steadies herself on its arm even though Miranda is already making her way out of the room.

Behind her, with the Book under one arm, she leans close and braves the stench of alcohol to murmur, "I am not acknowledging a proposal while you're drunk."

It seems to take the words several moments to catch up with Andrea's brain because by the time she turns her head, the den is already empty. Nevertheless, she calls toward the hallway a promise that is made to sound more like a warning, "I'm gonna ask again when I'm sober."

On the first step in a long flight of stairs, Miranda halts and replies, "Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw, I borrowed the "I've been drinking" line from _That '70s Show._


	12. "Why Are You Whispering?"

**Rating: **General audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs, Nigel Kipling  
**Additional tags: **Established relationship, romance, fluff, domestic  
**Word count: **213

* * *

She hadn't realized what she was doing until Nigel asked her, "Why are you whispering?"

Phone frozen to her ear, she paused mid-planning last-minute details for the next day's shoot, looking down. On her lap, Andrea's head rested peacefully, the rest of her body curled up on the couch cushions. Her chest was rising and sinking in a slow, steady rhythm, a soft breath blowing out of her nostrils every few seconds. Until Nigel questioned it, Miranda hadn't realized she'd been trying not to wake her up.

She'd finished work later than Miranda, and despite working on wrapping up her investigative series for the better part of the last twenty-four hours, getting very minimal sleep in-between, she'd still shown up at the townhouse for dinner, looking genuinely happy (albeit exhausted) to see Miranda.

Dinner hadn't even finished cooking, however, when, sitting together on the couch, Andrea had practically fallen asleep mid-sentence. And although Miranda could have easily gotten up and left her to get some decent shut-eye in peace, she'd found herself placing a throw pillow on her lap and carefully guiding Andrea's head onto it instead, proceeding to answer e-mails and write memos on her phone.

It wasn't until Nigel asked, "Why are you whispering?" that she realized she was in love.


	13. "You've Thought About This, Haven't You?"

**Rating: **Explicit  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly  
**Additional tags: **Established relationship, smut, sex toys  
**Word count: **1583

* * *

They talked a lot about it before finally giving it a try: tried to figure out whether they really wanted it or it was merely a default option originated by a patriarchal society, discussed--once they'd established that they were, in fact, in it for the right reasons--who would do it first, and finally browsed numerous Internet collections for the perfect choice.

When it finally came time to do it, it felt like the perfect choice.

They were in Andy's apartment; Miranda's daughters were present at the townhouse and despite the fact that it was past midnight, they weren't willing to risk it yet.

"How should we..." Andy began and trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the bed, where she was sitting in the center, clad only in a set of tull lingerie Miranda had gifted her some time prior. The latter was standing at the foot of the bed, equally dressed, and fiddling with the item in her hand.

"On your hands and knees," she finally decided, sounding more practical than commanding, as if giving the matter great thought. Perhaps she was; this was, relatively speaking, new for both of them.

Nodding, Andy began to turn, then stopped and slid her panties down her legs, just to make things easier. The soft material rubbed exquisitely against her skin before being picked up and discarded over the side of the bed, and she already felt an involuntary clench at the thought of things to come.

Knowing that Miranda was watching, she was slow about rolling onto her stomach and bending her knees, making a show of gradually arching her back. Behind her, she heard Miranda's breath catch and quickly rested a flaming cheek against her cool pillow. They'd done it before in this position, of course, but never like this.

Miranda, in turn, stripped off her panties as well, then her bra, too, for good measure. Then she looked to Andy on the bed, ass up in the air, folds already glistening, thighs straining to hold up her weight. She swallowed hard and slipped her legs into the harness, securing it at her hips. She only felt slightly ridiculous with a phallus between her legs, a purple one at that, but then she saw Andy shifting on the mattress, readying herself for the invasion, and forgot all about it.

Climbing in behind her, she scooted close and rested a gentle hand on Andy's lower back, feeling the resultant shiver. Turning her head, cheeks tinted pink and eyes dark with arousal, Andy smiled her approval.

And so Miranda set to work. She started by running her hand up and down Andy's back, a soft, feathery touch that raised goosebumps below her fingers. Her lips lowered to pepper kisses wherever she'd touched, then over the unblemished skin of her ass, so white she was almost blinded. Muffled by a pillow, Andy emitted an impatient groan.

Next, Miranda sent a tender, questing hand between her legs and almost lost her breath. "You've thought about this, haven't you?" she said in a low voice, her fingers slowly moving in the abundance of moisture she encountered. Andy gave a deep moan in response.

"What did you think about?" Miranda pressed huskily, briefly touching her clit before retreating. "How do you want it?"

"God, Miranda," Andy mumbled into the pillow, every single nerve in her cunt pulsing readily. She tried to grind down against Miranda's hand, but it wasn't enough to give her the friction she craved.

"Do you want it like this?" Miranda asked and, without notice, slid two fingers inside her. Andy was so wet it took no effort whatsoever, and Andy's ensuing whimper made her feel momentarily weak. She began pumping the digits leisurely while Andy undulated, arching her back further and pushing her ass higher for maximum access.

"Or like this?" Miranda continued and promptly changed gears, accelerating the pace of her thrusting and ending each inward stroke with a shove that had Andy sobbing.

"Please," she begged, her voice no more than a squeak.

"How about this?" said Miranda and extracted her fingers. The next time she penetrated Andy, she was filled with three.

"_Yes_."

For a while, she fucked her like that, stretching her with her fingers, helping her accommodate to the new girth, but never giving her exactly what she wanted, only going so deep and steering away from the already engorged clit that begged, red and swollen, to be touched.

"I think you're ready now." Miranda smiled and abruptly removed her fingers, eliciting a sound of displeasure from her lover, who buried her face in the pillow and pushed back, seeking her fingers once more. Instead of her fingers, she gave her something else, holding the appendage in her wet hand and with the other grabbing the bottle of lube from the edge of the bed. Andy was wetter than usual, clearly enjoying this new thing they were trying, but if it couldn't help, it couldn't hurt either.

Properly slippery, Miranda brought the dildo to Andy's weeping cunt and tentatively ran the tip from opening to clit, testing the waters, rubbing it a few times more against the clit. The ragged moan Andy responded with, the shudder that visibly coursed through her body were answers enough, and the next time it touched Andy, the tip was probing her, slipping its way past the contracting muscles at her entrance.

"Oh, my god," Andy muttered, instantly pushing back. Miranda's heart began to pound in her chest and ears as she watched the toy slowly disappear farther and farther inside her welcoming opening until it was three quarters of the way inside.

"Is that good?" she inquired breathlessly.

In place of a verbal response, Andy pushed back again, effectively impaling herself on the rest of the dildo with a high-pitched gasp that turned Miranda's brain to mush. She looked down at their adjoined bodies, the only thing separating between her mons and Andy's ass being the harness, and before she could control herself, she gave an involuntary shove, pushing Andy further into the sheets.

It turned out to be the right move, though, because Andy said, "Oh, my god" again, rocked back against her, and groaned when she couldn't get enough stimulation. Pulling herself together, at least enough to give her lover what she needed, Miranda took hold of both her sides, withdrew slowly, and then drove her hips against her again, delighting in the sounds of wet flesh, of leather against skin.

The squelching noises of her wetness as Miranda set to fucking her in earnest should have embarrassed her, but between the rubbing of the dildo against her inner walls and Miranda murmuring things like "This is nice," and "That's it. Thaaat's it," Andy couldn't bring herself to care about anything besides the knot deep in her belly, the ache in her core, and how come it had taken them so long to make the decision to do what they were doing now.

Sex with Miranda was marvelous, in every form and position. She could do things with her tongue that made Andy wonder how she was the first woman to share her bed, and Andy gave as good as she got. Their sex life had never felt as if there was something missing, certainly not a penis. But this... oh, no penis had ever done this to her.

Her silent musings were brought to a grinding halt when a hand reached around her leg, and when Miranda's fingertips started rubbing frantically at her clit, she all but screamed and began to rock against her, meeting her thrust for thrust.

She was going to explode, she just knew it. This would be a powerful one, definitely in the top five, if she were keeping score. Her clit was burning up under Miranda's touch, and she was so, so full, Miranda's pounding increasing within her, and the ache inside her was intensifying by the second, becoming unbrearable, becoming--

"YES!" she exclaimed, and this was a scream, all right. "Oh, my god, yes, yes! Don't stop! Don't stop."

Miranda didn't stop, had no intention of doing so, and a few moments of deliberate hip movement later, Andy was clenching and crying and coming until she barely felt human anymore.

When she came to, she was empty, and some time after coming, she'd slumped on the bed, her legs still shaking. Her cheek had an imprint from the creases on the pillow case and her throat felt dry, and when she could finally bring herself to roll over, Miranda was stepping out of a harness with a very wet dildo attached and joining her.

"That was..." Andy began on a gasping breath, unable to find the right words to describe what it was, unable to keep a dopey grin off her face. A trembling hand pushed her damp bangs off her forehead, closing her eyes temporarily.

"Yes," Miranda agreed, sounding insufferably self-satisfied. "It was, wasn't it?"

"I think there might be something to this whole experimenting thing after all." Turning on her side, she kissed just to the side of Miranda's lips before capturing them in hers. "Thank you."

"Well, darling," said Miranda, placing two strong hands on her chest and pushing until Andy was on her back again, "it's my turn now." Sitting up, she grabbed the harness and held it out for an eager Andy, who was quick to grab a tissue from the nightstand to prepare the toy for another use. "I'm on top."


	14. "We Have to Be Quiet."

**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly  
**Word count: **280

* * *

"We have to be quiet," Andy whispers for the third time, anxiously glancing behind her to make sure no child enters the living room, catching them in the deed.

Miranda, alas, doesn't know how to be quiet. "I want it there," she orders, gesturing vaguely at the desired spot. "Yes. Yes."

"How's this?"

"Hmm. Very nice," she answers, even smiling.

"Why don't you help me out here a little?"

With a deep sigh, Miranda lands her own hand to the task. It's satisfying to get exactly what she wants; not nearly as satisfying, though, as letting Andy do all the work.

"Do you like it?" Andy asks, smiling triumphantly.

"Mhm."

"Think the girls will like it?"

Tilting her head thoughtfully to the side, Miranda examins the full image before her: the brightly lit fir tree decorated, with the kids' help, earlier that evening; the assortment of colorfully wrapped presents underneath it, sitting patiently in wait until morning, when Cassidy and Caroline will charge down the stairs, inevitably waking Miranda and Andy after not enough hours of sleep, and tear through every wrapping paper and box to claim their new possessions.

They will like it, indeed. Miranda likes it, too: she likes the thought of their impending joy, likes the notion of a merry Christmas with her family, likes the warm transformation of their living room. She even likes the duct tape still stuck to Andy's hand after an hour of hard work. She thinks she should be rewarded.

"Come on." She walks up to her and places a hand very low on Andy's back. "Let's go upstairs. I can think of something much better you can do with your hands."


	15. "Love Is Overrated."

**Rating: **Teen and up audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly  
**Additional tags: **Sexual relationship, casusl sex, no strings attached, hidden feelings, established relationship  
**Word count: **667

* * *

"Same time tomorrow?" Miranda asks--although she expects neither a confirmation nor an objection; unless something actually comes up, Andy always says yes--and sits down at the foot of the bad, clasping a delicate, lacy bra behind her back.

Andy answers her question with her own: "You're leaving already?" She, for her part, can't bring herself to move just yet--doesn't think her legs would cooperate with her brain if she tried--and she settles on watching the exclusive art that is Miranda's transformation from her plain self (as plain as Miranda Priestly ever gets) to a goddess in couture from between the comfort of her sheets.

"I still need to review the Book," Miranda provides simply, rising from the bed to retrieve her plum dress from the other side of the room.

"Oh," is all Andy says.

Casting a brief glance behind her back, Miranda furrows her brow. "What?" she questions and proceeds to slide into the sheath more gracefully than Andy ever could.

"Just..." Andy falters with a shrug, feeling ridiculous, feeling the evidence of her stupidity in the warmth on her cheeks, "I don't know, you could stay."

"Why would I do that?" Miranda's frown deepens and the swift sound of her zipper intensifies Andy's shame. What good reason could she offer indeed? "Stay for cuddles?" Nightlong pillow talk? Before she can utter something as ludicrous, Miranda makes her want to sink deeper into the mattress until it swallows her whole. "Don't make this more than it is."

She collects her _Alaïa_ pumps from different spots in the room and sits back down on the edge of the bed as Andy stumbles over herself to deny the allegation. "Oh, I-I wasn't."

"We agreed: only sex, no feelings, no strings attached," Miranda carries on as if Andy hasn't spoken, clearly calling her bluff, while slipping first one foot, then the other into the suede shoes. "Just until we get it out of our systems." _And move on_ hangs, unspoken, in the air.

"I know that," Andy responds dejectedly, feeling like a chastised child.

"Then what more do you need?" Miranda turns to her, her smile downright sneering. "Love?"

In an instant, Andy's dejectedness turns into hostility, Miranda's mocking emphasis on that word getting her hackles right up. "I never said that," she bristles through gritted teeth. _She's_ never said _that_.

But then again, Miranda has always been able to easily see through her because she drops the attitude, replaces it with a long sigh, and stands up again. "Love is overrated," she murmurs somberly.

When she reaches for her handbag, Andy begins to feel the urgency and she sits up against the pillows, desperate to not see Miranda walk out the door quite yet. "I didn't say anything about love," she repeats, adopting a firmer tone she hopes Miranda won't belittle. "All I'm asking is that you don't leave right after... you know." She gestures vaguely at her lap, covered by a wrinkled blanket. "It makes me feel cheap."

Pausing in the doorway, Miranda raises one hand to rest against the post, face turned toward the kitchen. Even so, Andy can tell she's deep in thought, hopefully considering her words. Andy isn't asking for love, she isn't asking for a fairytale, but at this point, it's painfully clear to her that what she wants from Miranda goes beyond just sex.

Miranda turns back to her, her face as indiscernible as ever. "Lunch tomorrow," she finally relents and it's the sweetest sound Andy has heard all evening--and she heard some very sweet sounds--as begrudging as it is. "Meet me at _Oceana_ at 12. Don't be late."

With that last command, the ensuing, brisk clacking of her heels bounces off the walls of the apartment before the slamming of the door cuts it off, leaving Andy in her solitude to try and wrap her head around the last few seconds. Then she flops back on the bed, involuntarily grinning from ear to ear. Tomorrow, she has a date with Miranda.


	16. "I Never Stood a Chance, Did I?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, kids, this is a long one.

**Rating: **General audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly, original characters  
**Additional tags: **Established relationship, angst, drama, secret relationship, miscommunication, conflict, conflict resolution, romance, hurt/comfort  
**Word count: **4406

* * *

At half past ten o'clock, Andy knocked on the townhouse's door. Winter was just showing its first signs in New York City, the temperature dropping down a few degrees that made all the difference. Out on the suburban street, the night wind was whistling through the houses, rocking the trees in its vigorous rhythm and blowing their leaves along the sidewalks. It had rained earlier in the evening and the evidence lay in the wet concrete ground, the leftover droplets falling from buildings' protruding balconies, and the prominent smell of damp soil in the air.

On the townhouse's doorstep, Andy wrapped her arms tightly around herself, shivering in the cold. Although she was dressed in several layers of clothing, a scarf wrapped snugly around her neck beneath the collar of a wool coat, warm socks nestled between designer boots and her feet, the chill still found a way into her body, slipping past her skin and curling up her spine. As she waited for the door to open, she clenched her jaw to quiet the clanking of her teeth and swung back and forth on her heels in a futile attempt to generate heat, anticipating the warmth the yellow light in the windows guaranteed and dreading it all the same.

She didn't hear the footsteps approaching the door, but she heard the key turning in the lock, the chain rattling metallically as it was heedlessly dropped, and then warmth enveloped her, the dim light spilling into the street. And before her stood Miranda Priestly, her blue, silken negligee and matching robe a perfect contrast to Andy's attire, the smile on her lips easy and inviting.

"Come on in," she said, her voice barely carrying over the whooshing noise of the wind, and moved aside. Andy stood still.

"I don't want to."

Miranda opened her mouth and visibly took a breath, clearly about to say something, when the words, belatedly registering with her, painted a frown across her features. "What?"

Andy frowned, too, puckering two purpling, trembling lips into a purse. Inside her mouth, her teeth started chattering again, her breath leaving her in steamy puffs. "It's all over every tabloid and website and-- and... s-stupid blog," she accused, her quivering voice taking the bite out of the words.

It was plainly apparent that Miranda was at a complete loss, but instead of inquiring further or even defending herself, she stepped forward and closed delicate fingers around the thick sleeve of Andy's coat. "Andrea, come in here," she urged softly but firmly, "it's freezing outside."

"Answer me first," Andy argued, staying in her spot.

Miranda, her patience fast-waning as par for the course, dropped her hand and sighed irritably. "You didn't ask any question." She offered Andy a pointed glare, one eyebrow climbing up menacingly. Even now, confronting her was like playing with fire and more often than not, you got your fingers burned. Andy almost deflated before remembering the reason for her anger.

"I saw the pictures, from the gala," she stated. "They're everywhere."

At last, the penny seemed to drop, Miranda's face relaxing back into its unreadable expression. "Oh," she said flatly, flippantly, "that."

Andy's ire, on the other hand, intensified, her arms falling disbelievingly at her sides as she took a step into the house. "Yes, that," she said incredulously. Miranda's nonchalance ignited a rage of much bigger proportions than the turbulent wind at her back, its flames licking their way up her body to where her cheeks had already reddened from the cold, coloring them further. "The pictures are everywhere!" she repeated. "Everyone's talking about it!"

"Who's everyone?" questioned Miranda, taking the situation so lightly that it left Andy speechless, despite the many rehearsals she'd done in her head on the subway ride over, planning exactly how the conversation would go. In her imagination, Miranda was as unpredictable as in real life, but whether she'd have gone on the defensive or selected a mode of attack, Andy had been ready for any scenario. She hadn't prepared for Miranda simply not caring and it left her chest heaving in wordless fury.

Taking advantage of her momentary perplexity, Miranda rounded her to close the door, shielding them from the winter outside. The house suddenly became very quiet; somewhere in the distance, a clock could be heard ticking; in the kitchen, the fridge began humming. Behind her, Andy felt the whispery touch of Miranda's hot breath, her lips grazing the top of a cold ear as she held Andy's hair aside. "Come up to my room."

"No," insisted Andy, forcing away the shiver that wanted to erupt by sheer will.

The next moment, she was cold again and, against that strong will, swayed back in unconscious search of the lost contact. "Well, then, what are you doing here?" demanded Miranda, leaving her, once again, nonplussed. She couldn't very well say she'd come to pick up a fight, and a fight was the last thing she wanted to have. She also knew she hadn't come, frustrated with indignation and hurt, to do what Miranda had obviously had in mind when she picked out her outfit.

Taking the reins back into her own hands, she spun to face Miranda, folding her hands over her chest. "Who is he?"

"I will not have this conversation with you until you drop the attitude," Miranda replied so icily they might as well have kept the door open, her tone seeping into Andy's bones and chilling them anew.

"Excuse me--"

"And keep your voice down," she instructed. "The girls are sleeping."

"Miranda, this is a fair question," Andy argued, but lowered her voice all the same, coming closer. "Pictures of you and 'the new Mr. Priestly,'" she said with accompanying air quotes, "are smeared all over _Page Six_. I have a right to know."

"Do you," Miranda stated, extremely sour. Her lips puckered as if she were, indeed, sucking on a lemon wedge.

Andy realized that if she didn't shift gears, and fast, she wouldn't be able to get anything out of her. "Okay. I'm sorry. I'm calm," she said, even though she was the farthest thing from it and at the moment a small part of her wanted to throttle Miranda. Then she attempted the impossible and tried to appeal to Miranda's emotions. "But I'm hurt, okay?"

This seemed to do the trick, at least enough to get Miranda's shoulders down, make her posture relax. "Well, I don't see why you would be, and frankly, I don't appreciate you barging in here and making a scene." So throttle it was then.

"I am _upset_," argued Andy. "I don't like seeing my girlfriend with another date, so sue me."

Right on cue, Miranda rolled her eyes at the term she deemed so juvenile, which was precisely the reason Andy had used it, but nevertheless, she answered, "You and I both know that it's unseemly to attend these events alone." She lifted an eyebrow. "Especially when I'm the one hosting."

"So bring ME," Andy said emphatically, pointing so hard at her chest she could feel it through her coat and the fabrics beneath it. With a furrowed brow, she stared at a gaping Miranda, who suddenly didn't look so haughty anymore; the statement that to Andy had seemed so obvious was apparently a completely new revelation to her.

The silence that ensued seemed to stretch into hours, days, at least enough time for Andy's heartbeat to slow down and for the grim understanding to settle upon her. "You didn't even think about it, did you?" she murmured, not quite so heated anymore, but somber and subdued with the weight of the realization. "It never occured to you to ask."

Miranda didn't respond, but her pursing lips were answer enough. She knew that Andy was right.

"Are you gonna see him again?"

"It's not like that, Andrea." It wasn't exactly reassuring, but at least she seemed to finally give a shit.

"Does he know that?" Andy chuckled bitterly. "Does the rest of the world?"

"Don't you think you're being a little too dramatic?" said Miranda, but even as she was administering the insult, she came closer, a hand reaching for Andy, who all but jerked back as if from a scalding fire.

"No. I don't." She squared her jaw, feeling her blood pressure spike back up. To her utter horror and mortification, her throat started to contract around her words. "I'm tired of being hidden."

Eyes widening momentarily at her thick, strangled voice, Miranda asked, "How was I supposed to know that?" making it sound like it was Andy's fault. She probably thought it was.

"I don't know." Andy gave a feeble shrug, lips turning down in a frown. "It's not like you ever asked."

"Great. So now I'm supposed to ask about every little th--"

"_No_," Andy interjected, "you're supposed to know!" And then, the worst thing that could have happened, happened. She choked up, felt the awful tingle behind her eyes, and before she could do anything about it, tears were blurring her vision, inevitably slipping past her eyelashes when she tried to blink them away. One arm immediately shot up to wipe the moisture with her sleeve, but it was hardly inconspicuous and didn't fool anybody.

"God," she breathed out. "It's been almost a year. The divorce was finalized ages ago. And yet you're still hiding me like I'm some... some mistress... a dirty secret. Sneaking me in here after your kids are asleep and making me leave in the middle of the night. It's _humiliating_, and demeaning, and it makes me feel like crap!"

Struck dumb, Miranda swallowed visibly before clearing her throat. Even as she spoke, her voice was decidedly weaker than before, as if she wasn't quite convincing herself. "You're saying ridiculous things, Andrea."

"I'm not saying ridiculous things," Andy cried, the tears coming freely by now, her cheeks and nose growing pink with the blood flowing to the surface. In a short while, she would surely regret the spectacle she was making of herself, but as uninhibitedly as the tears were pouring, so were the feelings that, up until now, she had not realized she was keeping inside. But like anything that was pushed down for long enough, they ought to have burst out eventually.

"There's two of us in this relationship and I have thoughts and opinions and emotions, too, and I'm sick of feeling like they don't matter. Like _I_ don't matter. I'm sick of feeling like you're ashamed of me, and wondering when you'll finally have had enough and toss me aside, and opening up a newspaper to see you cozying up to some rich, tuxedoed guy who's so much better suited for you than me." She gestured vaguely with her hand, as if the man from the gala was standing right there beside Miranda. Her face scrunched up with both emotion and the effort to keep the tears at bay, her chin trembling uncontrollably.

Through the distorted glass at the house's entrance, a bright, white light could be seen briefly illuminating the darkness. Shortly thereafter, thunder crackled through the sky, so loud and dreadful it seemed as though nature was turning on itself, trying to rip itself to shreds. And as soon as the uproar dissipated, the unmistakable sound of rain followed, spewing down on the city and washing it of its grime and dirt.

Inside the house, the air stood still, the heavy stream outside a mere soundtrack to the stunned silence. Andy stared at Miranda, Miranda stared back, and neither said a thing.

"I never stood a chance, did I?" Andy said into the quiet, her tears slowly drying on her cheeks, leaving sticky tracks in their wake. And in the pause the question gave Miranda, she got her answer.

"Wow..." she whispered.

"Andrea," said Miranda, but she was already heading for the door, every step heavier with the hundred tonne weight pressing down on her chest and the sinking feeling of something big coming to an end. She really had been foolish enough to believe that Miranda Priestly, of all people, was the one. But then a voice she'd always tried to ignore had chimed in every once in a while to remind her that something like this could never last.

"Andrea, where are you going?" Miranda persisted, following her. "It's pouring outside." Andy couldn't care less. What could a little rain do to her that the last few minutes hadn't already? This must be what being a living, breathing cliché felt like, she numbly reflected as her hand reached for the door handle. She felt like a complete and utter idiot.

"Andrea, wait, wait," Miranda pleaded, as close to urgent as Andy had ever heard her. She didn't touch Andy as she came to a stop beside her, but it looked like only pure determination was stopping her, her body gravitating toward Andy's own. "Please don't leave now. We can talk about it."

"What's there to talk about?" Andy replied hollowly before opening the door. Outside, a strong gust of wind greeted them both, slapping them with its force and punishing drops of rain. Wetness returned to Andy's eyes, though this time from the brisk air blowing steadfastly against her face. Miranda, for her part, stepped back, hands instinctively rising to rub up and down her thinly covered arms, a shudder coursing through her exposed body. Andy took advantage of the reprieve and left.

* * *

Back at her own place, sitting at her kitchen table in a warm, dry set of sweats and a towel around her hair, swirling cheap, red wine in a glass, Andy felt pathetic. But Miranda hadn't called since she'd stormed out into a literal storm, not even to check that she hadn't been struck by lightning and died; the same feelings she'd arrived at the townhouse with at the beginning of the night were still very much present, lodged in her chest like a brick restricting her breathing, only escalated by everything else that had accumulated once her misgivings hadn't been reassured, and for once she decided that she had every right to wallow in her pity and drink the pain away. If only a bottle of $10 wine could do the trick.

On the table, the open issue of _The New York Post_ stared up at her from its _Page Six_ column, taunting her, mocking her. On the page, Miranda's arm was looped around that of her tall and handsome companion's, the kind of person she could dine in public with and show off at ritzy events. The kind of person who was _safe_.

Safe was the one thing, from the very beginning, that Andy had never been for Miranda. But she hadn't once imagined how dangerous Miranda could be for her.

Downing the rest of the bitter liquid in one gulp, she slapped the glass onto the table and took hold of the paper, tearing a meticulous, straight line between the happy couple in the picture.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, she woke up with a hangover, the shrill of her alarm drilling into her head. Bright light was invading her apartment through the windows she'd forgotten to draw the curtains over, the steady noise of the rain replaced with car honks and yelling from the street below. A grey towel was hanging off the edge of the bed, her hair, dry and messy, splayed out on the pillow beneath her head.

Unable to open her heavy eyes, she felt for the alarm clock with a tired hand, slapping the nightstand several times before locating the device and silencing the offending noise. Even so, her head was still pounding and the rising bile in her stomach admonished her for one too many glasses of wine with its nauseating effect.

Hunting blindly for her phone, she found it abandoned on the floor by the side of the bed and rolled onto her side, forcing one eye open to the tormeting, glaring light of the screen. And promptly froze.

Thirteen missed calls. Forty-seven text messages. There was something to be said for perseverance, but this bordered on stalking, especially before seven in the morning. Still, a small, masochist part of her appreciated the fact that Miranda cared enough to bombard her with this much attention, but it'd take a little more than a cup of coffee before she was ready to face a grovelling apology; a lot more if what Miranda really wanted was a second round. After all, Andy had left before allowing her to say her piece, and she imagined there was a lot of wrath stored in Miranda after poking the dragon.

Tossing her phone on the mattress, she compelled her tired muscles to cooperate as she rose and stretched, stumbling her way to the bathroom. A shower, however, didn't cleanse her of the previous, wretched night, nor did the subway ride to work, where she usually cherished the time to be alone with her thoughts; today, she could do without them. In her pocket, her silenced phone kept ringing stubbornly.

It was only when she arrived at work that her mistake finally dawned on her. She really should have known. After all, Miranda Priestly never grovelled.

The moment she entered _The Mirror_'s bullpen, as if possessed by a magnetic field, every head in the room turned to her. Some had their eyes and mouths open in shock, others directed judging looks at her, a few snickered.

Frozen in place, Andy was afraid to touch her face to check if something had stuck onto it on the subway, her discomfort growing every second her colleagues didn't look away.

"Way to go, Andy," a chuckling voice suddenly said, its owner--Dominic, who wrote the financial column--emerging from a corner office to give her a friendly pat on the shoulder that was hard enough to propel her body sideways.

With a frown, Andy stared after his retreating form. "Um... thanks?" Had she uncovered some deep, dark secret that had made headlines come morning? She tried hard to remember what her last article had been about, but between the enduring hangover and the newly added drama to her life, it was a challenging task getting her brain to function properly.

Wading through the staring gazes, she made her way to her desk, gingerly lowering her satchel and sitting down. And as she recovered her phone from her pants, an incoming call lit up the screen. Only the displayed name didn't say _Miranda_.

"Mom?" she answered, her heart immediately filling with dread. It was unusual for her mother to call her this early, knowing she was busy with work, but suddenly the unanswered calls and texts all fell into place, hinting at something way worse than Hurricane Miranda. Her mind was already running rampant with horrible scenarios. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"You're asking _me_ that?" her mother's disembodied voice answered frantically. "I should be asking _you_ that. What's going on?"

"What?" Andy's confusion deepened. "What are you talking about?"

"Please tell me this is some twisted joke," her mother went on, oblivious to her puzzlement. "Because if not--"

"Mom!" Andy broke into her rambling. "_What are you talking about?_"

"You and your boss," she enunciated.

Forehead creasing, Andy looked up in the direction of her editor's office. Was that why everyone had been staring at her? What did they think... "Me and my... What, Greg?"

"No, not Greg," said her mother, her voice as harsh and disapproving as it had been the night she and her father caught Andy trying to sneak out on a school night to go to a party they'd forbidden her from attending. She was pulled out of the memory by her mother's voice saying the name "Miranda Priestly."

"Mir... what?" How could her mother possibly...

Removing the phone from her ear, she opened the list of missed calls: none from Miranda. The list had grown since the morning, but with names of friends and family members and even colleagues, same as all the texts she hadn't read. Those were now staring back at her with messages of shock and bafflement that competed well with her own.

As her mother kept speaking into her ear, she turned her computer on, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor until the screen lit up. And then, with a few clicks of the mouse, there it was:

  
** _Miranda Priestly's New Beau... or Should We Say Belle?_ **

_ We've all seen the pictures from _Runway_'s Winter Wonderland Gala two nights ago, where said magazine's formidable editor-in-chief debuted plus-one Mark Bradford of Wall Street, who we dubbed Husband Number 3. The two seemed to be as in love as every couple in their honeymoon faze. Or were they?_

_ Sources close to the editor revealed this morning that the fashion maven has, in fact, been in a relationship with a woman for the last several months: twenty-four-year-old, anonymous reporter for _The New York Mirror_, Andrea Sachs._

_ We did some digging and found out that prior to her newspaper job, Ms. Sachs was, of all things, Ms. Priestly's personal assistant for the better part of a year. Although said sources claim no misconduct took place during Ms. Sachs's employ, we're left with our eyebrow raised._

_ Ms. Priestly, as reported by us six months ago, is recently divorced from broker Stephen Tomlinson, who has refused to answer to our plea for comment, but we're still wondering. Could something have been going on while the two were still married? Is this the reason Mr. Tomlinson served Ms. Priestly divorce papers back in September of last year? Or was the whole divorce Ms. Priestly's idea after all, who seems to be done with men?_

_ We've tried to reach Ms. Sachs's newspaper for further comment, but so far to no avail. However, we'll keep digging into this newly unfolded mystery of Miranda Priestly's sapphic relationship with her much younger partner and keep you, as always, updated with the latest and juciest news._

  
Dumbfounded, Andy stared at the computer screen. And stared some more. And after about an hour of staring, she still couldn't form a single, coherent thought.

"Andrea!" her mother startled her out of her reverie. "Are you listening to me?"

"What?" she mumbled.

"How come I had to hear this from Aunt Sheryl instead of my own daughter?" she completed a rant Andy must have missed. "And your father... pfft, don't even get me started on him. He nearly had a heart attack, you know--"

"Mom, I'm gonna have to call you back."

"What? No, Andrea, we're not finish--" her mother began, only to be cut off. Throwing her phone on the desk, Andy leaned back in her chair and exhaled.

* * *

Miranda opened the door on the first knock, and this night was not quite so freezing, as if the air had cleared up for this special occasion. No storm loomed in the corners of the sky, threatening with destruction, the clouds had parted, and if it hadn't been New York City, they would have also cleared the way for the stars.

Andy held up her copy of _The New York Post_, which she'd picked up on her way over from work, although it wouldn't have mattered which gossip source she picked--news had spread everywhere. The lightweight pages of the newspaper blew and rusled in the wind as she smiled at Miranda. "Is this you?" she asked in lieu of a greeting, already knowing the answer. "Sources close to the editor," her ass. She had enough insight into the publishing world by now to know exactly what that phrase meant.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Miranda replied nonchalantly, not convincing anyone and not trying to, and Andy's smile grew exponentially.

"Aren't you worried about people finding out?" she asked. All along, she'd known of all the factors Miranda had to consider: her job, her children, her reputation. But she'd always hoped that she was important enough to consider, too. She didn't need to hope anymore.

"I'm more worried about your IQ level," Miranda deadpanned. "Honestly, if I'd known you paid this much attention to gossip rags, I wouldn't have bothered with you in the first pl--"

Stumbling backward as Andy practically threw herself at her, she was effectively cut off, any other sarcastic comment she might have made stolen by Andy's arms around her shoulders. "Thank you," Andy whispered sincerely into her neck.

Miranda made a _hmph_ sound in response, before grumbling, "You're welcome, I'm sure," and hugging her back.

Andy didn't know how long they held the embrace, the front door still open, the paper still in her hand. But when Miranda quietly said, "I didn't know you were ready," she pulled back. Miranda's face was completely serious--she wasn't joking anymore--and Andy instantly understood what she was talking about. "I wasn't hiding you."

"I thought..." she began and swallowed. "I mean, with the divorce, and _Runway_, and the girls."

"The girls have known for weeks," Miranda said, as casually as if she hadn't just astounded Andy. Here Andy had spent months thinking Miranda was embarrassed of her, of what they had, that she'd never bothered to suggest they take the next step, when she already had. Andy, herself, had never suggested it either. She realized that now.

"I just wanted to give you time," Miranda explained. "I didn't know it bothered you so much."

In place of a response, Andy came closer, cupped Miranda's cheeks, lightly rubbed her thumbs across her cheekbones, and kissed her. It was softer and more tender than any other kiss they'd shared before, not sloppy and frenzied or one that promised of things to come. With this kiss, Andy expressed her gratitude, and her earnestness, and the immense love she felt for Miranda in that moment. And when she released Miranda's lips, they were still parted, her eyes still closed, as if she was trying to savor the sensation, as if she understood.

"Hmm," she hummed eventually, reopening her eyes. "Well, I hope you're happy."

"I am," Andy confirmed, grinning, and hugged her again. "Happy, happy, happy," she whispered sweetly into Miranda's ear. "Can I sleep over?"

"Yes," Miranda answered simply, disengaging to finally close the door behind Andy's back. Taking the newspaper from her hand, she carelessly threw it onto the closest table before grabbing the now freed hand and leading her toward the stairs.

"Can we have waffles for breakfast?"

"No."


	17. "It's Three in the Morning."

**Rating: **General audiences  
**Archive warning: **No archive warnings apply  
**Category: **F/F  
**Relationship: **Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters: **Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly  
**Additional tags: **Established relationship, humor, domestic  
**Word count: **282

* * *

"Sheets?"

"Taken."

"All of them?"

"Every last one."

"Did you pack the satin set? Because you always forget something."

"I didn't forget," Andy replies with the last vestiges of patience and turns off her bedside lamp. Rolling over, she lays a swift peck on Miranda's lips and settles in-between the sheets. "Goodnight."

Miranda doesn't respond, but mercifully, silence ensues and the next sounds to fill the room are the ticking of the wall clock and the occasional car passing through the street below.

Miranda's eyes open into the darkness. "What about a mace?" Andy barely stifles a growl, but screws her eyes shut tighter, burying her face in her pillow. "Those dorms can be extremely dangerous. You know, I saw on the news--"

"_Miranda_," she groans, a long-suffering sound that comes out muffled against the pillow.

Miranda is undeterred. "Maybe we should have gotten her a pepper spray," she muses, mostly to herself. "Do you think a pepper spray would have been better?"

Throwing back the blanket, perhaps with a little more force than necessary, Andy reaches for the bedside lamp, punches the switch, and squints at the abrupt brightness. Turning to an unfazed Miranda, she huffs. "Miranda. She's gone to college, not the South American wildreness. She'll be _fine_."

"You don't know that."

"She's literally thirty minutes away!" she all but yells. Miranda's lips purse in displeasure.

"It's three in the morning. Go to sleep," Andy orders before casting the room in shadows once more and resolutely showing Miranda her back. Caroline, she bitterly thinks, might actually be safer in the South American wilderness, away from her mother. Nothing, however, will save them when Cassidy moves to _Northwestern_.

"Clothes hangers?"

"Aaaargh!"


End file.
